Rise Against the Odds
by Oniksu
Summary: Ratonhaké:ton, a young man who becomes the first from the Frontier District to volunteer for the Games, is determined to end the Templars' violent system once and for all.


**Author's Note:**

You might be confused with the time this is set in, but it's supposed to be modern times, as television already exists here. I modeled it after the Panem universe in Suzanne Collins' _The Hunger Games_ series. From Districts 12 to 1, the lifestyle goes from crappy to luxurious. Connor and his tribe belong to the like of District 12, which explains their poverty and . . . umm, simple, way of living.

(Also, I did not make this a crossover because I only adapted the system from THG. There are no characters or places from it, just concepts and ideas . . . But okay, what do you think, should I make this a X-over?)

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

Death is here. I know and feel it. The leaves rustle in agreement. Birds frolic in its proximity. Death—its essence is colliding with the wind of the frontier—lonely, cold, and empty. I am a guest in its territory, a witness of its works, and, someday, inevitably, a victim that will be taken in its grasp. But that someday is not soon, I hope. My weapon is poised carefully and my senses are synchronized with tension rising in me. I raise my bow and aim at an idle fox, unshaken by the air of death. The fox is steady, unaware of my presence. It breathes in death. I do, too. Within a heartbeat, an arrow goes flying into its neck. The stone arrowhead buries itself in its flesh, and I emerge victorious . . . over death, once again.

I pick up the body of the fox and begin to skin it. The pelt and the claws go into a burlap sack, inside of which are several rabbit's feet and pelts. I have caught nothing else but hares today, until the old fox came along, fortunately. I sling the bag over my shoulder and look at the sky, which is turning darker by the minute. The orange in the distance disappears slowly, signaling me to go back home. But first I approach the running river, crystal clear and full of life and secrets, perhaps even immune to the air of death, and I wash my bloodied hands in its waters. I pat them dry against my clothes and with one last breath of the riverside air, run back to the village, hopping freely between the treetops.

As I approach the village, burlap bag in my grasp, I hear a voice call out, "Ratonhaké:ton!" It comes from the distance, the direction of my village. I pace a few steps before I hear another one. "Ratonhaké:ton!" It was my mother's voice, weary and raspy, as if panic has stricken her. Immediately, I shift, picking up my speed and catching my breath occasionally. I rush through the darkness of the night while taking care not to drop the bag.

The village is silent when I arrive. My mother's voice leaves no trace. The clan mother is speaking to some elders before a bonfire. My friend Kanen'tó:kon welcomes me with a nod and escorts me back to the hut where_ Ista_ has stayed since being inflicted by sickness. I knock on the door before entering it, and there is the sight of_ Ista_ resting comfortably under layers of canvas blankets.

"The elders came to calm her down earlier. She was screaming, flailing. She was looking for you, I think," Kanen'tó:kon says as I sit beside my mother and lay my hand on her cheek. "You heard her?"

I nod. The look on _Ista_'s face is peaceful now. There is no evidence of her previous outrage, not even a trace of worry. "She must have been dreaming . . . ," I suggest. Ever since being ill with this fever, mother has acted very nervous and unsettled, experiencing nightmares every now and then, most of which revolve around me, according to her when I once asked.

"And what of?" My friend asks in whisper.

". . . Troubling things," I reply. "Do not worry. I will talk to her tomorrow when she wakes up. What matters is that she is well now."

"Ahh, yes, her fever is getting better, according to Moema. She was the one who nursed her this morning. She is preparing her child for the games. It's her first year . . ." Kanen's voice is soft. He is trying his best to avoid the subject of the games, but I can see in his eyes that he wants to talk about it, if so for the purpose of wanting to accept the reality of existence. This year is his fourth year of entering, while it is my third. We each remember the first year of the other, and though they were very different, both were painful and cost a lot, even a life. The daughter of _Ista_'s nurse has just turned twelve last month, which indicated her validity to joining the games. Her absence has reminded Kanen and I of the sorrow we both felt during the day of every reaping we have attended by far.

"Her child has been crying all evening."

"Just like us before," I tell him. He looks at me, abashed. Yes, he remembers it.

"She still has more luck, Ratonhaké:ton. Her name is only entered once. Mine has been entered twenty-three. Ever since what happened to my father . . . ," his voice trails off.

"I entered mine nineteen times, in exchange for _Ista_'s medicine."

Kanen sighs. "Well, tomorrow we find out, anyway. We don't have to think about it. It only makes it worse. Besides, you need to rest, my friend. You're exhausted from hunting. But first you will hand that to an elder so he may deliver it to the peacekeepers."

"No, no. _I_ will deliver this to the peacekeepers," I say, showing him my game bag.

He shakes his head. "You do not want to run into them, let alone meet them."

"I suppose, out of curiosity, I will."

He snatches the game bag out of my hand. "No, you will not." He runs out of the hut. "I'm giving this to the elders!" he yells, his voice diminishing as he runs farther away.

"Kanen'tó:kon!" Just when I am about to stand and chase him down, _Ista_ begins to mumble in her sleep. She coughs softly. I put my palm on her forehead. Heat has subsided, now there is only subtle warmth. Her mumbling continues, and the longer it does, the more I hear my name among the other words she is saying. I feel a lump form in my throat. The air suddenly stills itself around me. My mother shifts beneath the blankets.

That is when I hear her say, between heavy breathing and raspy coughs, "Ratonhakéton . . . no. No. Don't . . . let it be . . . him. Please. Not my son . . . No. Please."

A teardrop forms in her eye. It rolls down her cheek, glistening in the firelight. I remember when I was younger, when she would tell me stories of my father, whom I have never seen. She would tell it the way she would folklore, with finesse and a hint of enchantment. She says I would do this in my sleep. I would cry subconsciously, because, as I had said when I was little, I imagine my father with us, like the man _Ista _makes him in her stories—noble, strong, yet very gentle and caring. I swore back when I was young that I will, as soon as I am able to step out of the frontier, search for my father—not only for my sake, but for my mother as well.

Once again, she whispers my name. "It's not going to be me, _Ista_," I whisper in her ear. She then stops mumbling. I lean close to her and kiss her forehead. "Goodnight."

Preparing to leave, I gather my bow and quiver, as well as my dagger, and exit the hut, right before Moema enters and bids me goodnight. I bid her in return. Kanen'tó:kon waves at me. "We see each other tomorrow, Ratonhaké:ton!" he says. He then enters his family's tent to go to sleep.

I head back to our tent as well, which will be occupied only by me for the fifth time in a row tonight. It is going to be lonely, I can already tell. I expect to have nightmares, as I always do before the day of reaping. I close my eyes, expecting to see an image of a man from the first district onstage calling out my name before a grand audience—a pompous, peculiar man from the twisted Capitol, ruled by the Templars, who are in constant pursuit of order.

. . . But instead I see another man, whose features were a blur at first, but when I begin to delve further into my dream I discover this man is none other than the one from _Ista_'s folklore.


End file.
